


Minus what you will

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [42]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Animal Death, Eldritch Influence, General discomfort of self and the unknown, Hound Mutation, Return of Them Update, Self-Harm, lunacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 10:03:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18963025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Do I know much about the update? Not really.Is it ever a good idea writing fanfic when said update is in beta and liable to change? Nope.Am I doing exactly that anyway? ...yes.





	Minus what you will

**Author's Note:**

> Do I know much about the update? Not really.
> 
> Is it ever a good idea writing fanfic when said update is in beta and liable to change? Nope.
> 
> Am I doing exactly that anyway? ...yes.

“Look, Mister Wilson, look at what we found!”

The man turned on his heel, alert, hyper attentive even, and Webber gave him a spider grin, limbs all twitching and wiggling about, mandibles drawn close and eyes blinking in pairs together. In their hands, shifting, silently still yet stuck solidly in place, was a shadow.

For a moment, the child could see their friend tense up, face shifting, going still in that image of a leap away, terror, but then he blinked and the little foggy cloud of an afterimage in their hands swayed, back and forth, their claws cupping it up like an alter.

“Webber, what did I tell you about picking anything up!?” Mister Wilson's voice squeaked at the end, and he moved slow and took his steps gently, the crater moon dust crumbling into fine powder under his feet, but Webber only smiled, a few eyes scrunching up at him before flashing down to what they held so carefully now.

The little cloud of swirling, shifting fog twirled, waved, and they almost thought that it was dancing, in that swaying, lullaby way.

Something in the back of their mind was scratching, a nagging feeling, curdled at the base of their neck and making their furry mane all bristle up, but they blinked their eyes at their new little friend, all in one big blink, and then one at a time, and the shadow of Wilson approaching closer to squint at the fog in their hands made their limbs twitch, jitter as they sucked in a deep breath of the weird, crystal clear air, tinged with sea salt and heady spice.

For a moment there, they had almost forgotten what it was like to breath! 

“You told us to not touch anything that looks spiky or bitey or mean, Mister Wilson!” Their voice rose and waved, clear of spider clicking, clear of even the usual roughness that clogged their throat from spider chitin and bristles, but their scientist friend was tilting his head and scratching his chin, giving the cloud an odd, scowly look, so he didn’t notice.

Webber noticed! They noticed real quick!

But they churred a purring hum, eyes squinting as their forced spider smile started to sort of pull on their face, mandibles shifting in place again and again for more comfort, and then they raised up their hands, claws bending to be more flat, and Mister Wilson leaned back to stare at the floating foggy image angled up at him.

“But it’s okay, Mister Wilson! They don’t want to hurt us!”

Their friend was still scowling, but they could see the unnerve crawling over him, in the way his dark eyes widened ever so slightly, the faintest of tinged pale clarity settling in, and how he seemed to stiffen, grow very very still, and then started to rub his claws together in rhythmic, clicking motions, and after only a moment Mister Wilson took a step back, an almost stumble away from them, a hand itching through his hair and tugging as he shook his head.

 

“Whispering…” He shook his head again, and his eyes weren’t looking to Webber anymore, though they continued to smile, big and bright and spidery, stiff, limbs waving and twitching in movements they couldn’t, couldn’t quite feel, reach.

For a moment they both stood stock still, and Webber could hear their own heartbeat, pulsing inside them, and in the spidery hair bristles and the insides of their ears set deep in their skull it felt as if they could hear Mister Wilson's pulse too, in fast, quick steps, not at all shallow. The waverly little thing in their claws turned in a circle, the whole world moving around it as Webber watched with big, wide pale eyes, and it wiggled itself, tendrils of fog, the dip of its little almost, almost but not quite head.

 

And then Mister Wilson was taking a big, big deep breath, straightening up as his claws curled up into fists, and when he looked back to Webber his eyes were the usual shiny darkness that they’ve grown so familiar with. 

They blinked round, round eyes up at him, bleach white, clear, and even though he didn’t see Webber could.

Webber could.

“Alright, it’s not biting you, but I still don’t want you to be touching it.” He waited, as if to watch for a murmured complaint or “aww” of sadness, but when none came, only Webbers blinking gaze and their twitching spider limbs, the man grinded his teeth, grit his jaw as he inhaled noisily, and then looked away, too fast. “Let’s just, wait for Wickerbottom to examine it, okay? We don’t know what it is just yet-”

“It’s Gestalt!” Webber spoke up, interrupted with a simple, forceful tone, and their friend stared at them for a moment, gaze then sliding to the twisting image in their hands, still half risen to him.

“I...that’s an odd thing to name it-”

“That’s what it’s called!” Webber cooed out a twittering tune, limbs jerking as they raised their head, and their entire body was all puffed up, bristly fur standing straight up like spines, and they blinked their eyes, one at a time as Mister Wilson watched with an abstract, horrified interest. “Gestalt!”

For a few minutes their friend was silent, and his eyes were starting to curl, go worried, concerned, but too often Webber watched as Mister Wilson's eyes kept drifting to that which was in their hands, and it looked like he was trying not to, trying very hard, but he was losing so, so terribly badly

 

“...Okay.” The man took in another breath of air, deep, and Webber followed suit, cause their chest was fit to bursting now, the cool, funny smelling air a blessing to flood their choking insides. His voice was quiet, going so very quiet, almost too quiet now, a whispered hush. “Okay.”

Another moment of silence, but this one didn’t drag on like the last. Webbers eyes flashed, the slightest of twitches from their head as their limbs all jerked and pinched in close to their skull, and then half a second later was the loud whooshy noise of flame.

Mister Wilson tripped around, words just about out of his mouth, but Miss Willow was hopping almost hopscotch in the lizards trail of exhaled flame, giggling a mad fit, and it was enough to break the process.

“Willow, what did I say about-” Their friend made a frustrated growl of sound, stomping his feet as his words escaped him, and then he swung around his scowl and gave Webber a leveled look.

“Leave that here, Webber. You can tell Wickerbottom all about it when we get back to the boat.”

He only waited a half moment to watch them tilt their claws, let the fringe of fog slide from them to drift to the powdery dirt, and then he was stomping away, waving his arms and shouting at Miss Willow as she giggled and laughed and saw everything so, so clearly.

Webber tilted their head to watch, for just a few seconds and then their limbs twitched and jerked and they slowly turned their head down, to stare at Gestalt as it twirled in fine dances in front of them. Shiny dust swirled like mini tornadoes along with it, made it gleam in sparkling clarity, and Webber tilted their head, each eye closing individually, opening in wide, white glazed lenses.

“It’s okay.” they whispered, lowly, hardly glancing over to see Mister Wilson as he leapt over the arc of flames just to make an attempt at tackling Miss Willow down. 

The afterimage, of something else, something far more, too much more, tilted its own head as if to copy them, swirling streams of fog and mist and the lunar dust, shiny powders.

Then Webber outstretched their arm, claws bending to allow it access, and Mister Wilson wasn’t paying any attention, so it was alright.

The fog drifted up, settled, and Webber stood up straight as it bowed in their open claws.

Or curtsied. Or waved. Or just swung side to side, danced for them, lilting half words almost, almost reaching them, almost.

They were so, so very close. They could almost, almost see, now, and very soon, very very soon, they’d hear as well.

Webber grinned an even bigger spider grin, jaw hurting and straining from the unnaturalness of the action on their spider body, and their limbs waved and twisted and dug at their chitin, dragged through their furry bristles and tried to reach, tried to itch and dig at the gnawing, scraping feeling in the back of their mind, the base of their neck.

Gestalt wharbled, whispered, lulled a lullaby Webber could remember, oh they remembered it, from a long, long, _long_ time ago, and then dipped its lovely little mist head, and faded away from their claws.

Webbers talons closed and opened, closed and opened, as they stared at the spot their new friend had just been in, the grin on their face _hurting_ but _stuck_ , and their limbs dragged deep against their chitin and nicked close to their eyes, fangs biting a smidgen down into their mandibles as they stared wide, moon glazed eyes to the nothingness, yet everythingness, that sat just so in their hands, and then their arm dropped back down to their side and they turned back, towards their friends.

They needed to go back to the boat. They needed to tell Miss Wickerbottom, to tell everyone.

All that their friends had to do, was see.

And then? 

Webber twittered, a purr of spider noise, chimes in the powdery, moon sparkled air, breath flooding their lungs as they gasped, and gasped, and continued to do so even as they stumbled their way forward.

And then, they’d _hear_ it all.

***

Maxwell pressed his weight down, leaned heavily upon the spear, and the hound finally stopped kicking.

Sticky ichor left its jaws in a gush, a burbled gasp of its last heaved breath, and the others around were finishing off the rest of the pack, perhaps with a bit more finesse as he glanced around.

The beasts were sopping wet, fur laden with water, and it was almost astounding to realize the blasted things had _swam_ all the way out here after them. The baying had started when they were still out in the shallows, the drudgery of the rows and splashing waves making the whole expedition not even worth it in his opinion, but Maxwell had not been doing that for most of the ride.

Instead, still back on the mainland as Wickerbottom made a last quick check of the boats facilities, making sure the last voyage hadn't left too much of a mark and leaving it still seaworthy, Maxwell had been handed a shoddy wooden bucket and tasked with scooping water off the deck.

The dip of the boat wasn’t much, more of a platform than anything he was familiar with, but the old woman was sure of her knowledge on boat making and with Woodie’s and Winona's help it had survived so far. This expedition was supposed to be smoother than the last.

But the hounds had called, and soon those black specks became clear enough shapes of the creatures paddling after them, pushed around by the waves in one large mob.

No Varg to lead them, but Maxwell had no idea on if those things could swim or not. He’s never seen them try, but then again he’s never seen a blasted hound wiggle its sodden way through the water with the express purpose to ravage the lot of them.

To say he was exhausted with this whole affair would be an understatement. Coming to this island did not sit well with him, not at all, and he’d much rather stay on the mainland with the few they left behind. Unfortunately the firestarter had stayed behind this time, and logic stated that he’d find it a safer time out here in the unknown than in her company.

Dislodging the spear from the hounds corpse, an arc of sticky blood and the things last shudder as its nerves ripped away from the rocky blade, and Maxwell slowly straightened his back and exhaled heavily, curling his lip at the taste of the air.

This place was _stagnant_. It almost smelled like the deep ruins, the atrium even, with the ever so slight hint of a spice he could not identify, but it wasn’t the fuel. This was cleaner, sure, but it left a much different film on the tongue and did not sting, was not spicy hot, and instead the ice cold chill was completely removed in comparison.

Maxwell, understandably, did not like it whatsoever. It made goosebumps rise on his arms, fingertips tingling numb and insides twist, just being here, and the feeling of not _belonging_ was not one he especially enjoyed.

The others, however, did not seem to feel the same. In fact, it was as if the air itself made them more curious, more stupid, and every trip here just seemed to fuel that fire.

“Everyone alright?”

Maxwell raise his head, watched as Higgsbury, spear still in hand, walked around from the hound mass he had killed, purple ichor still splashed across his vest, and then slowly but surely everyone pipped up, became accounted for as they answered back. 

He only gave a frowned scowl towards the man when he looked over to him, obviously displeased with the whole scenario, and he got back a lopsided half frown for that before the short man went back to helping Wickerbottom to a stand. The old woman had been shoved over at some point, but the hound had died with a spear through its throat either way and she seemed unharmed.

Wendy drifted nearby, her sister drifting even closer behind, tethered, and Wigfrid crowed her victory atop a massive corpse, feet firmly planted onto its sodden fur, spilled entrails from its ripped open stomach soaking the dusty, powdery earth. Winona nudged one of the beasts snouts with the end of her spear, frowning, and Maxwell could see one of those odd floating creatures nearby, watching her closely.

They coated the island entirely, and even seeing the faintest afterimage of one was enough for him. It was as if they radiated pure anxiety, and the last trip here had returned with a stunned, all too confused Webber. The child was left back on the mainland this time, though Maxwell wondered on even if that was enough.

He had watched the boat anchor with the others who had stayed behind for the voyage, Wendy doing quite well masking her nervousness nearby while Abigail darted back and forth, waiting for their friend to step off and greet them, safe and sound. Instead the old woman had to guide the spider child off their makeshift dock, slow steps, and while the others unloaded what they had gathered the tense, anxious energy flooding off of them was thick in the air.

Even Maxwell had been unnerved, and something about the child, whether something wrong _with_ them or _around_ them, had put him on guard indefinitely. Whatever it was, Webbers glazed eyes and almost inability to remember to _breathe_ , of all things, was worrisome.

And the faded sprites floating about, gathered in little shivering groups to watch them, was not helping in the slightest.

Turning the spear, making a vain, half hearted attempt at wiping the blood slicked about its blade off on the dusty dirt, the droplets glittering lavender as the powder soaked in, Maxwell rolled his shoulders and picked at his suit, the damp fabric now marked with hound blood. The waves had been hazardous, rowdy, and none of them have escaped unsoaked from the boat trip.

Still, glancing over to see its bobbing platform, it was a relief to see no holes or leaks anywhere. At least he knew he’d not be tasked with felling trees in this place.

A glance around showed it was sparse enough, odd bush flora and the bleached bones of beached ashore sea critters. One such skull grinned emptily back at him, empty dark eye sockets, and Maxwell frowned as he turned away.

As he made his way towards the cluster of the others, Wickerbottom examining the scratches Wigfrid had “proudly” acquired, Wilson checking up on Wendy and her sister, Maxwell could feel a headache already take root in the back of his mind. Shooing away a few of the ghostly floaters with his soaked shoes, eyeing them as they darted away yet drifted right back into following his footsteps, he shook his head as he took in a breath, just about ready to wonder out loud why, in fact, they were here, and for how much longer.

But he was interrupted.

A loud, echoing, _wrong_ sound rippled through the powdery still air, tinged with salt, and everyone, him included, froze. Something moved in his peripheral vision, blinking as Abigail suddenly coiled protectively around her sister, Wilson tightening his grasp upon his spear as he turned, and then the noise layered, ripping tearing gurgles and coughs, some even rising from right behind Maxwell, and then-

_-there was barking._

Maxwell swung around, spear held close, and it caught him completely by surprise as he watched the hulking corpse he had just disposed of twitch, wiggle, almost kick, it's very skin rolling and bloating, sodden fur sticking straight on end, and then the gash he had landed earlier on the back of its neck stretched, purple blood and pus oozing from the split as _something moved._

A blurry pale eye blinked at him from inside the injury, blood streaming down through the dark fur, and then it narrowed.

And Maxwell watched as, with a violent, spasming jerk, the very skin of the hound ripped in half and out burst a slimy, howling _thing._

He, faintly, heard the gasps and the sudden shouts of the others, distorted gurgled barks and whimpers, the sound of splitting flesh, but for this moment all he could stare at was the _thing_ standing before him, rivets of fluid dripping from ghastly pockmarked skin, rolling eyes as they latched upon him, and there was very little in his mind but it echoed nonetheless-

_-Hounds stay dead, they only get one chance-_

-and then with a gargled snarl, saliva and more blood gushing from its bone jagged maw, curdled far back as its twisted limbs wobbled, the creature let out a _scream_ and leapt at him.

The flashes from its dash, the hint of the purple gash still upon the back of its neck, exposed vertebrae and the white of bone, curdled bubbling flesh, a maw that split in distortion and its rolling, bulging eyes, blood bursting as its very skin started to rip apart even more, it was too much of a sudden shock.

And Maxwell went down near instantly from its weight, lighter than before, yet stinging from its very touch, as if the slimy cold somehow cut right through his already sodden clothing and straight to dig against his skin.

Someone screamed, though it sounded oddly muffled, and for a second the creature raged, twisted claws kicking against his legs, dragging flashes of pain, and the only thing that had protected his neck had been the spears handle, caught between its teeth.

For a moment, Maxwell staring in horror as more sticky blood gushed over him, its bulging eyes rolled to a stall and stared right at him, straight through him.

For one shivering second, he had the dizzy thought that it could _see_ him, and not in the normal, usual way of sight.

And then its jaws grinded, jerked, stretched unfathomably, and he realized that its mouth was much, much larger than before.

The spears handle slipped, caught in between teeth that more resembled shards of bone, and the creatures pale eyes narrowed, the stretching pops and fleshy tearing as its jaws grinded open.

He wasn’t quite pinned underneath its weight, claws caught into his suit, a slimy froth making its dipped hide shine, the powdery dust of the island sticking and glittering, but Maxwell was stuck watching as the creature near tore itself in half. Its upper jaw wobbled back, and the barking hiss of sound, a dying exhale of disgusting breathe, the lower jaw curling as its fangs dragged against his suit jacket.

At its next inhale, whole misshapen body shuddering, Maxwell had gotten a much better grip upon his spear. It dipped down, drool and blood sloshing out from its gaping throat, glassy eyes bulging, and with that he scrambled to right the damn weapon into skewering it.

The mistiming was too much, his own shaking and the fact that he was shell shocked, still felt winded, this creature's appearance too much, too sudden, and it thrashed as the blade grazed its jaw, dragged a line of oozing purple, and very suddenly it's almost thoughtful movements devolved into something more primal.

Claws and teeth, sharp pain as he tried to kick it off, struggled to get it off of him, and its jagged limbs were lashing out, broken body seizing as he landed a few more hits, light cuts and jabs in a mad scramble to fight back. It slid off him as he got a leg up and shoved a knee into its caved chest, gurgled sickly wheezes and whines, but just as he got into a shaky stand, spear held tight, it righted itself and stretched its broken jaws in a mock howl of sound.

It didn't sound like a howl, it sounded nothing like one, and for that dizzying moment it sounded more like the screams of those he's grown so familiar with, a parroted sound that it seemed to grin at, bulging eyes just barely hanging on, set into swelling slick skin. 

It was adrenaline and the faint traces of having fought hounds before that made swinging at its leap automatic, the spear cutting through its pale flesh much easier than it would have with thicker dark fur, more of its sticky blood and that oozing clear fluid, but its momentum was enough and his balance not so much.

Falling under it a second time, wheezing as its limbs jerked, spear passing through those great gaping jaws, farther and deeper in that what could even be possible, and Maxwell hardly had the time to draw in a breath before it shuddered and the gush of hot blood soaked his arms and front of his suit with another coating of purple stickiness.

His heart hammered in his throat, and its bugging eyes stared at him, through him still, but they did not roll or twitch anymore, its weight sliding down the shaft of the embedded spear to rest against him, and the second corpse stopped its kicking for good.

To say he had the energy or even mental capacity to shove it off him would be lacking truth, and Maxwell gaped at the impossible thing, ears ringing, adrenaline still taking its course, and the yelling around him was a din, the distorted barks silenced.

Hounds did not come back. Nothing did, nothing but pawns, nothing but the fools around him and himself, non natives, the creatures could not revive, they had no right they stayed dead _this was all wrong_ -

Muffled voices, and then suddenly the abominations corpse was shoved off him and Maxwell was tugged up into a stand, wavering on shaking legs and feeling light headed and dizzy as hands kept him steady.

"Hey, you alright there Maxwell?"

Wilson stared at him, kept his gaze as he finally took a shaky breath and tried to organize himself, and with that he pushed off the man's attempts at support and waved him away, chest aching with each breath he had to focus completely upon.

"Fine, fine Higgsbury-"

And then the racing adrenaline was gone, suddenly, the distraction from what had happened fading, and with that pain took its place, filled in what he had forgotten about, and Maxwell wobbled for a moment before his legs stopped supporting him.

The other man caught him, as best as he could anyway, and there was calling for a bit of aid from the others but Maxwell only glimpsed Winona's tired face as she walked over to help, the landscape around them even more chaotic than before.

Almost every bristled hound corpse had been ripped open, leaving the sodden skin and fur limply behind, and other corpses were scattered about now, slimy and wretched in comparison. His niece was being taken care of by Wickerbottom, wrapping injuries about her arms with premade silk bandages, Abigail nowhere to be found, and Wigfrid was leaning heavily upon her spear, tense, alert now, her own hound having only seemed to have crawled its way from its previous corpse a few scant inches. Its pale, bulging eyes were glassy, empty, and its guts trailed behind it, entrails dragged from when it had shed its thick furry hide. From the scouring wounds he could see still clawed up on the viking, it hadn't died without a fight, even with its previous wounds.

It brought to mind the corpse behind him, and the woman beside him was holding his leaned weight with ease as he glanced back at the monstrosity.

The spear had jabbed right through its ripped open jaws, straight back out through the wound he had killed it with beforehand; the gaping slash in the back of its neck still glistened with raw blood, stretched open, bleach white bone poking ruggedly through and the spear tip sheared right out into open air.

It took a moment, blinking as he got a bit more of his weight under him, finding one of his legs worse off than the other, a numbing pain spreading from his knee up to his hip, a stinging gash at his side making him hiss in air with every step Winona was making him take as she dragged him closer to the others, near the boat and the supplies, but he could still see what was gathering about that horrid corpse.

The little sprites fluttering about wavered and danced around the purple ichor soaking the ground, darting away as Wilson shooed them off and wiggled, dislodged the spear from the hounds jaws, jerking back as its maw snapped shut and body rolled to its side, finally going stiff. The faded images flickered, faded and then grew strong, and Maxwell could feel the pain of what that thing had done to him sharply now, wincing as he tried to remember to keep breathing steady, pain in his chest and a dizzy nauseous headache settling in his head.

For one horribly terrifying moment, he watched as those dancing things went still, their almost heads jerking up to stare, straight at him, through him.

They could _see_ him, he thought, dizzily, wobbling as Winona grumbled and tried to get him to focus, shifting his light weight, and Maxwell turned his gaze away from the scene, not quite feeling right.

The pain was dulling, in a horrible numbing way, and when she set him down to collapse down near the old woman, he found it was, getting a bit hard, to see straight, to breath in and out evenly.

When had he forgotten how to breath, he wondered dizzily, and faintly he pressed a hand to his injured side, wheezing at the spark of pain, hearing the muffle of the others talking, patching up as Wickerbottom turned to hand over salves and bandages to his shaking bloody hands. 

The hounds only had one chance, he thought foggily, and it took a moment to remember, realize he needed to patch himself up, sound dulled down and only the faint shifting of the Gestalt outside, ringing around the lot of them, was a clear cut image. The hounds had one life to live, and when they died they did not come back.

The pawns had no end of chances, and had no choice in the matter.

Staring at the corpse of what had ripped itself away from its once mortal shell, the multiple monstrosities scattered about, Maxwell found himself dizzily, idly wondering if perhaps, here, the pawns only had that one life left to live now.

***

"Alchemist, cöme, löök upön this."

Wilson stopped examining the odd rock he had found, shining veins or perhaps an encapsulated figure, something that had made him scratch his head and circle around in trying to figure it out, and turned to see Wigfrid kick the rocky monstrosity away from herself.

Another one of those nests stood a bit aways, silent, almost as if empty, but the three corpses about her spoke otherwise.

"Wigfrid, we need to be careful. You really shouldn't fight those on your own."

"I am fine, friend." She grinned at him, though like this she looked tired, and Wilson frowned as he walked to her side. Just as he stepped close the corpse twitched, wiggled, legs spasming, and he lept back as it seized up and twisted, jerked about, the sudden thought that he shouldn't have left his spear behind racing through his head-

"It's not dead!?"

"Öh, it is." The woman poked the twitching body with the end of her spear, letting it roll for a moment as its legs curled in close, or as close as they could. "But this is what I wished to shöw yöu."

The rocky nature of its hide seemed to be crumbling, bits and chunks of its almost petrified flesh sloughing off, great crystal spines and fixtures chipping and dusting into tiny shards, and, as she poked and prodded, Wilson edged up close to see the faintest bit of shined exoskeleton.

Curiosity got the best of him, and, after a quick check to ensure it was certainly dead, he crouched down to examine what was hidden under its clay and crystal armor.

But, that wasn't quite right either. It wasn't at all like the spiders of the caves, hardened chitin growths and changed, almost evolved forms. Maxwell had commented offhandedly about that once, how the spiders had actually _adapted_ to cave life, but the ones on this island…

Hesitating only a moment, Wilson reached out to scratch at the rocky formations that encased around the exoskeleton peeping out. His claws dug through almost too easily, reduced the rock to powdery dust, almost like the glittering dirt that made up this island, leaving behind grooves, but it wasn't an armor like he had originally thought.

The exoskeleton ended, seemed to fuse almost, but not quite. Like a skeleton in rock, shattered, the insides filled with the same dust, no entrails or blood that was usual with the spidery specimens of this place, and the crystal spouted in twisted, almost painful looking juts, random, no form to it whatsoever. Carefully Wilson handled its legs, six as always, not quite arachnid with the lacking fourth pair and abdominal sections required, but keeping the same likeness.

The only answer he had gotten from Maxwell had been irritated mumbling about this and that, not really any straight answer, but he had ended up chalking it up to laziness. The creation of the spiders seemed to have been an offhanded thing.

These spiders were not spitters like the cavernous ones, and their eyes were more numerous, large and small and scattered, no discernable pattern, some dark marble and others glassy white, as if blind in one part but not in another, but they still had the depth perception to somehow attack from afar. Wilson couldn't quite get a good look while in a fight, but with this specimen being dead now he could try to figure out what, exactly, it did that sent those odd sharp stones up from the ground.

Most of its body was of a jaw set, crystal spines and spears, the clay of rock infused together, the shine of exoskeleton poking out here and there, but the legs were mostly chitin. Holding one up, his own claws a very stark contrast to the shine of the spiders, Wilson marveled at the traces of stone, crystal that spiraled in bits and pieces, fused to create this one limb.

At the end, however, there was something odd. A hole, of sorts, yet when Wilson bent the leg a certain way, mimicking the motion of what he's seen these things do, there was a slide of vibration and a crystal spine sliced out, almost grazing him in the process as he startled. Usually the spiders seemed to dig themselves into the earth, striking down before the spikes shot up to clip everyone's feet, and the length of this crystal now in his hands was undoubtedly long. 

But it wasn't flexible. The crystal attack wasn't a shot, as it left nothing behind but holes, disappearing when the spider stood back up, but this didn't make much sense either.

Wilson glanced to its slack jaws, ringed with crystal, a mess of clay and formatted minerals, glassy eyes staring emptily back. They dug their mouths in as well, an almost bow, and he raised a hand to tap a claw against one such fang.

Nothing happened, but then the rock crumbled and the shard wiggled loose, dropped to the ground with a quiet thud. Picking it up, turning it about his claws, but Wilson could only summarize it to be like the rest of the moon shards scattered about this place.

In all honesty, he'd say these spiders were petrified, somehow, but the addition of the crystal didn't make sense, and neither did the fact that the creatures were even alive still, not to mention hostile. What did they eat, live off of, if they had no internal organs of their own?

Not to mention the nest itself, the twitching limbs from the clay encapsulated form. Wilson glanced over, scowl set on his face as he studied it from afar. This place was certainly different, that was for sure.

He didn't have to be a genius to know that. The hounds and odd "Gestalt" were good enough warnings, and so was the fact that both Webber and Maxwell had been put out of the equation due to visiting this place. The child had been left at the mainland, looked after by those who stayed behind, and hopefully when he got back they would be a bit better, but Maxwell hung back near the boat and wanted nothing else to do with this place. The hound attack had did him in, both physically and somehow mentally, and while Wilson really didn't like the fact that the one person who could have possibly had answers, especially with the cryptic wording of "moon" having been said so offhandedly for season's upon seasons by now, the fact of it was that the old man was near incomprehensible at this point.

Whatever this place was, something about it was picking off their numbers in some mental way that was vastly different from what Wilson was used to, and it frustrated him that he didn't know what it was. Right now, only Wickerbottom and himself had the curiosity of this place still in them; Wigfrid was here for the sense of adventure, the hunt, Winona out of a sense of protecting them and the faintest of answering her own questions, and Wendy, well…

From what he could gather, she was here due to wanting to know what had happened to her friend. Webber had come back quiet, slow, and while Wilson knew they would get better, he absolutely knew they would, Wendy seemed to want to know the root cause. While he didn't feel it very safe, he also didn't see much of a reason to deny her the right to come with them.

"Yöu see what I see, Wilsön?" Wigfrid stood next to him, and she was on guard still but sounded distracted, eyes focused as she turned her gaze away from the silent nest instead to the corpse he continued to handle.

When he looked up at her, brow furrowed, she crouched down swiftly, taking her spear in one hand as she pointed at the misshapen creature.

"This öne was löng dead beföre my spear stilled it." She reached out, tapped its glassy eyes, almost as if crystal itself, or perhaps it was, and jabbed a finger at its slack gullet, the ring of crystals making up its insides. "It is nö clöckwörk, nö hidden puppet, but sömething löng undead. See its bönes?"

"The exoskeleton, yes." Wilson set the spiders corpse down, tapping his chin in thought. "I had thought the rock was armor, but it's more like it was fossilized somehow. But I don't understand the crystals…"

"Immörtalized." Wigfrid answered back nonchalantly, standing back up with a quiet huff of an exhale. "Like the beads and necklaces öf löng past warriörs, sent ön their way."

Wilson gave the creature another lasting look, before shaking his head and playing along.

"I suppose so, but who would do that? It's just a spider."

"An öld öne." The woman rolled her shoulders, stepped away to stare down the stone nest once more. "Perhaps a warriör öf the queen beasts, a renöwn öne gifted immörtality för its past duties."

"Well, it's dead now. Not much of a legend." Wilson stood up as well, dusted off his vest as he heaved a sigh. Wigfrids answers were not very clear to him, especially since he wasn't all that knowledgeable about viking sort of stuff, nor of history in general, but every once in awhile she made sense.

He didn't quite know if this time she did though.

"Sent önwards tö its öwn peace. It has döne its duty." Wigfrid seemed satisfied at this level of thinking, and turned away from the nest, in the general direction of where the boat and the others were. "It will be dusk söön, perhaps we shöuld jöin with the öthers?"

"That sounds like a good idea, though I wish we had found something more tangible." They had food stores on the boat, but more exploration of this place was required. They needed to find something to make this place worthwhile, or at least allow for answered questions. 

"Perhaps tömörröw will be better in yöur favör, friend." The woman gave him a pat on the shoulder, heavy handed yet careful on his shorter frame, a smile set on her freckled face, and Wilson rolled back his own frustrations and smiled back as best as he could under the stressful circumstances.

It probably looked more like a grimace, but she, just like everybody else in their little group, was used to the expression and knew what he was trying to mean.

With nothing to show for their time besides a dented spear and Wigfrids new energization, the powdery dust on their shoes, Wilson lead the both of them back to where their mini camp was set up.

It would have only taken a few minutes, ten tops really, but then something caught Wilsons eye and thoughts of heading back early went right out of his head.

"Wait just a sec, Wigfrid." 

The woman slowed, not really understanding his curiosity over the odd geser they had already passed by multiple times, but she didn't have an objection as he trotted over to the wavering light.

Usually this thing was small, shallow, just the faintest of shivering air, but for some reason now of all times the crack in the earth had widened. Even as he approached, watched, the powdery ground crumbled ever so slightly more and the faint sound of air streams rose up a level, the gushing lavender and blue twisted light almost akin to a flame of sorts, but there was no heat to it, nor cold.

Actually, just looking at it was making him get a bit light headed, slowing before he could get too close. 

The geysers light made a ring around it, bright enough perhaps to protect against even the dark, and as he entered the ring the flames seemed to get stronger, light gushing upwards almost like a fountain before fading in the air.

It almost reminded him of the fissures underground, near the ruins, but not quite. This was...different, in the shallow fixture of the ground, not a scar but more of a simple hole, a tunnel straight down instead of zig zagging clawed paths that bubbled upwards. It didn't even _smell_ like the ruins, lacked that horrid incense that permeated the air in thick clouds reminiscent of far too familiar smoke; instead, inhaling experimentally, it was tinged with salt and dusty clarity, something cold in a way that had no attention to the temperature itself.

"Be careful, Wilsön. I dö nöt trust this."

Wigfrid had kept close behind, but stopped at the edges of the fluttering light circle, eyes narrowed and watchful, but Wilson only glanced at her before shrugging off her warning, waving his hands passively.

"It's not the ruins, Wigfrid, nothing will happen." Something, something like a tickle in the back of his brain, draining down his spine, made him edge closer, blinking wide eyed as he tried to glimpse anything inside the gaping hole itself. "And I...don't think it's dangerous anyway. It wasn't like this before, was it?"

"Nö, I dö nöt believe sö." She didn't sound particularly confident, gaze flicking between him and the shining light, hand tightening around her spear. "We shöuld head back, Wilsön."

"It may not do this again, I can't just ignore it!" Wilson shook his head, turned away from her, and his mind was already set as he stared at the waving light, squinting his eyes as it seemed to sway back and forth. "If you want to go you can, I won't be long."

The dismissive nature of his tone didn't quite reach his own ears, and the geser continued blowing the odd light, the clear smelling air out in one continuous stream as he risked a few more steps closer.

Chalking it up to the search for answers as a scientist, he felt quite curious on what was actually going on down there to create this sort of reaction. The ruins made sense, especially after grilling Maxwell for answers; nightmare fuel just under the surface, pulsing under the very earth and rising like a tide as the cyrcle did its rounds.

But this was not nightmare fuel, was not quite tangible, or at least for now perhaps, maybe there was a way to harvest this light source, keep it contained, already his mind was turning and clicking gears on trying to find answers as to the _why_ , _how_ of this natural phenomenon. 

The light flickered, more brightening before lessening again, the sound or air rushing as he got close, almost too close but not just yet, and the urge to stick his hand into the mass was almost too tempting.

But Wilson had more willpower than that, he knew that perfectly well, and instead shuffled around it a moment, the very earth that opened up to the light crumbling even more but not, in fact, widening out like the fissures he's seen before. More deepening, and the distinct thought of there being a steep, sudden drop downwards, a tunnel straight down to the core, set itself snug in the niches of his mind.

It made perfect sense, and he hardly found a reason to question the idea.

Blinking, and then finding himself having to squint as the colors seemed to pulse, and Wilson raised a hand to rub at his eye, an itch in the back of his skull as he tried to ingrain the image of the geser more fully into his brain.

For some reason, it was getting a bit harder to keep a steady gaze upon it. The flames were shivering, almost, or pulsing, and his focus was so sucked in that he didn't hear if Wigfrid had even answered him or now. If she left he was sure he'd be perfectly fine; this light was enough to keep the dangers of night back.

He wondered, vaguely, if the possibility of setting a camp here was available. No need of a campfire if this was continuous, and the amount of work he could do under its light, its influence…

Wilson itched at his eye again, scowling as he tried to blink away the dryness and focus. Why did something always have to interrupt him?

Standing quite close now, the light close enough to touch, just barely feeling the slightest brush of the whipping stream of air and its hues of swirling bright lights, Wilson was tempted again to touch it. Perhaps instead of creating a container, he could just...take it, in one go.

He had to blink a few more times, and frustration made him scratch at his damn eye a bit more, suddenly very, very aggravated.

There was sound, noise, muffled and low and beneath his interest, and why did everything have to interrupt him, distract him from what was important, this was _extremely_ important, he had to know what it was, what he could do with it, and he knew he could get answers-

If his fucking blasted eye stopped being so damn itchy!

And then suddenly there was a shout, loud, and then Wilson was yanked back just as the geser rumbled and opened up, cracking as its light and air forced itself out near explosively, bright and sharp and like fireworks in his brain.

And Wigfrid grabbed him tight, spun him around and away from the circle of hued light and whisper thin air, and Wilson blinked and found it very, very difficult to breath.

Why was his vision all funny and face all wet?

Wigfrid was talking, but it sounded so muffled, almost tiringly funny. Wilson raised a hand, lightly touched his own face and winced at the odd, numbing flare up from the action, and he pulled away his claws and found himself rubbing them together, slick and red as he blinked again.

Oh. He felt rather faint.

Wilson looked back up at Wigfrid, her pale face and her broken acting canvas almost too clear, stark, stared at her with one glassy, confused eye.

"...shit."

And then he fainted.

***

Winona heaved a sigh, leaned on the spear that she had staked into the powdery glitter dirt, and watched the weird little carrot as it spun itself into panicked circles.

And here she had thought she had finally found some food. It was probably still edible, but it sure as hell was no carrot.

Over to her right was a pool, glittered water and bubbling quietly, steam rising over its surface that wasn't quite hot nor cold, and Wendy had parked herself over there, leaning over and looking into its odd depths. At her feet were a few of those lizards, waddling around and hiccuping to each other, a few more red tinged than usual, but otherwise there was nothing else around.

No spiders, no hints of seafaring hounds, and, for right now, no Gestalt.

Winona had been on that first voyage, when the boat had finally docked for the first time onto this particular island, the thump as wood connected and dragged against the glittery sand, ashen powder of the salt dirt itself. Webber had been the one to find such creatures first, after Willow had set a good few trees on fire when one of those lizards had spat flame at her, and each voyage after seemed to just increase their number. The ghostly sprites were odd, small, darting about almost joyfully, but they tilted their almost heads to her and floated about her feet, trailed behind, and it was the oddest thing.

It reminded her of Charlie, and she didn't know what to make of that, especially not now after everything that had happened.

Webber had gone silent, slow, lost, and did not accompany this particular boating trip. The guys staying on the mainland would take care of the kid.

The hound attack had been normal, up until the corpses had withered and split in half, revealing abominations underneath raring to go for a second round. That had put Maxwell out of commission, the old man going quiet and avoiding even stepping off the boat, and the Gestalt crowded his footsteps wherever he stumbled.

And then Wilson had come back yesterday, Wigfrid carrying him back in a collapsed, bloody faced heap, and the man was still out like a light. The loss of his eye was going to cause problems, and everyone was drawn thin now at the stress and the danger that this island was putting them in.

It wasn't even all that concrete either. Winona wasn't much in the know how of mental stuff, but something about this place was really making everyone all out of whack.

In the morning they'd leave, and it would probably be a while yet before they'd come back again. No one's questions have been answered, and all Winona knew was that this place was not right in the slightest, no matter the vaguest of clues she herself was getting.

It would probably be best if they just got off this cursed place and come back better prepared.

And probably without the less mentally strengthened as well. No offense to Wilson, but the guy had apparently clawed out his own damn eye yesterday and that kinda just showed how fucked up things could get.

But this little spot she and Wendy had explored out looked pretty safe, all things considering. Empty save for these weird little critters.

Standing up, pulling her spear from the dusty earth and rolling her shoulders, Winona walked over to the scrambling about carrot creature….thing. It squeaked at her presence, eyes bulging and floppy body tumbling as it tripped, but it was dumber than a sack of bricks and continued to spin itself into circles. Unlike the rabbits, it didn't seem to have any hole to run back and hide in.

After a moment of watch it spin, hands on her hips and spear held loose at her side, Winona heaved a sigh. Food was food, no matter how odd or weird it was.

With that she bent down and scooped the thing up by its floppy little neck, easily wrapping and standing back up with it wiggling in her grasp. Balancing the spear at her side, Winona took the creatures chin in hand and easily snapped its neck with one motion.

And then dropped it into the bag at her side, hanging almost emptily from her shoulder. There really wasn't all that much to scavenge off this barren place, was there?

When she brushed her hands of the dirty work, glancing around in the silence, devoid now of the critters squeaks, Winona found herself to be alone save for the lizards.

They blinked round, wide eyes at her, shook their scaley hides and poked and squabbled to each other, but there was no sign of Wendy.

And that, right there, was really not good.

Spear in hand, turning on her heel as she looked all around the clearing, and Winona knew the girl could take care of herself perfectly fine but this messed up island was doing way too many people in to be any sort of normal or, hell, even manageable, and she sure as hell didn't trust this place enough. No one should be out and about alone, or wandering around in whatever haze this place was setting upon them all one by one.

For a moment there was a shiver of panic setting in, anxiety rising in her chest, _where did she go_ , before Winona turned in another direction and caught the flash of red and blonde and white, colors not truly native to this moondust place.

The relief she felt was short lived; taking those steps over, just about to have a talking to about not giving a warning next time, and Winona's words died in her throat as she got a good look at what was going on.

The shivering afterimages were crowded close, lavender and blue and hazed fog, misty as they darted and bumped and drifted about the powder earth, and Wendy sat in the middle of the mob, head bowed, as they all floated about her in a ring dance of sorts, almost but not quite.

Winona didn't even leave it to chance, stomping over as she waved the spear about, swung it to chase the Gestalt away in cloudy mobs, oozing whispering lullabies she could almost, almost hear, too far away and too soft to understand, and at this point maybe she didn't have the patience for it.

People were getting hurt by these buggers, and she was sure as hell not gonna let the girl get injured on her watch.

Wendy didn't react much to the interruption, and now at her side as the sprites scuttled away in loose mist mobs, vague figured heads twisted and turned to stare at her in empty tilts, Winona blinked down to see Abigail's flower in the girls hands.

The hounds had done the ghostly sister in, unfortunately, the slimy second round ripping her apart before lunging at Wendy, but she had damaged them enough for the girl to cut down without too much hassle. The bandages still on her arms, thin claw and teeth marks left behind from the fight, were clean cut and still good; old Wickerbottom had seen to everyone as best as she could, and their supplies had been stocked well enough to last.

Another attack like that however, especially with the aura of surprise and shock, would deplete them too much. It wasn't worth the risk.

As Wendy brushed her fingers over her sisters remains, head still bowed, Winona crouched down as she spoke up, intent and serious.

"You gotta warn me next time you wander off kiddo. Gave me a scare for a moment there."

The girl didn't answer her back, cupping the flower and stilling a moment, and Winona frowned as she tilted her head, tried to catch her gaze behind that curtain of thin hair. Abigail's second undeath always seemed to effect her badly, even though it would only take a few days before she was called again in all her ghostly fluttering whispers, but Winona didn't bother Wendy all that much about that sort of sisterly moping.

It was all the death and gloom talk that got her into lecturing the girl, nothing at all about the sadness of a missing sibling. Winona, in her own way all those years back, could relate for the most part.

Wasn't her right to judge on that sort of thing.

Just as she drew in a breath, about ready to get them both up and to hit the road back to camp, one measly little ratty carcass stuffed in her bag, when something shifted in the corner of her eye.

Winona blinked, and turned her head to see a Gestalt drift in close.

Before she could stand up, spear ready to smack the thing down and chase them off, it turned its almost head and-

 _Looked_ , at her, with the minor tilt of its foggy face.

And then rose a strand of mist, almost like an arm, glistening and going almost bright, flashing, and reached over to touch upon the girls back.

It was gone, faded as Winona snarled at its action, the faint sound of, what, snickering, giggling? There was a cloud of them now, drawn close, watching, and she swung around her spear, ready to defend the girl with everything she had. Whatever the swarm knew, whatever she felt personally about them, that hardly mattered a carrot rats ass if they hurt Wendy.

Before she could figure out the best approach to chasing them off, there was a faint 'thwump' of sound, and Winona spun around to blink wide eyed as Wendy slid sideways and collapsed into a heap, Abigail's flower dropping to the powdery glitter earth.

For a moment, it almost seemed as if the sprites themselves were holding their very breath.

And then Winona shifted back into gear, hurriedly crouched at the girls side, scooping the flower up without a second thought to deposit it into her bag, gathering the child up by the shoulders as she made an attempt to find a pulse.

It was there, and Wendy blinked open her eyes, squinting, falling closed before she seemed to even recognize her, and Winona could feel a panic creeping up on her, at the unknown that circled the both of them now.

"H-hey now Wendy, don't be falling asleep on me!" She couldn't quite get jesting into her voice, instead tinged with tense panic, barely held back, but then the woman made herself breath deep, hold it in before exhaling slow, and calmed herself.

No use panicking when she obviously had a job to do.

"Kiddo, I'm gonna stand you up, alright? Stay awake." 

She got a murmured answer, something at the very least, before carefully pulling the girl to a stand. Wendy wobbled, hardly kept her own balance, arms limp at her sides and eyes closed, head dipping as she leaned and swayed, and Winona grit her jaw at the sight of more Gestalt, creeping close, closing the circle about them like a fuzzy, light headed cloud.

She couldn't wave them off, and after a moment made the decision to ditch the spear, letting it drop and scattering the mob a bit. They needed to get to camp, now, and it wasn't good wasting the weapon but this was more important. She'll come back for it later.

"Alright, just a sec Wendy, gonna need a bit of cooperation on your part." More murmurs, incomprehensible and slow and, and fatigued almost, as if the girl was exhausted, and it was still not even close to dark yet, noon not even having set in, the morning barely over. Normally Winona would have choice words for that sort of thing, but this was way different from the usual. 

She knew Wendy better than that, and the girl was the complete opposite of lazy. It was obvious the faded sprites about them have done something to her, and if Winona wasn't more worried for getting the girl to stable safety then she'd be chasing the damn things to hell and high water for even daring to touch her.

Turning, getting the girl to get onto her back was a bit tricky, especially since she was just about to collapse down into an unconscious heap, but somehow Wendy hung on long enough to make an attempt at clinging to her, knowing what to do as thin arms circled a grip about Winona's neck and her slight weight settled and stabilized. It wasn't a difficult thing, giving a piggyback ride to a kid, even with a bag on her shoulder, but Winona found herself glaring down to the swirly little ghosts darting about her feet, some wiggling, stretching, as if raising their arms up to the girl they could no longer reach.

"Shoo, damn it!" Winona started off, trampling forward and unfortunately missing every single one, and she had to support the girls legs, bending slightly to keep balance as she walked, Gestalt drifting in a billowing mist trail behind them.

The silence was thick, empty, and Winona shifted herself, made a slight attempt to shake the girl up a bit on her back.

"Hey, you doing good up there?" She didn't get an immediate answer, worry gnawing its way through her chest, and shook a bit more roughly, keeping her eyes on the dusty earth before her as she took each steady step. "Need you to stay awake kiddo, no sleeping on duty."

No answer, and Winona knew it was a fair ways back to camp, they had really covered some ground scavenging around for near nothing to show for it, and she bit her lip as she tried to think. A quick glance behind showed that their little entourage seemed to be getting bigger, longer, a trail of lights and mist that dogged her steps, and she picked up her pace.

"Hey, how about this: you stay wake until we get back to camp, and I'll, uh, help you with waking Abigail back up." Winona had little to no experience with that sort of thing, and she had no idea on if she even could help or not, but the mention of her sister seemed to spark something in the girl and there was shifting on her back, hands tightening around her for balance, a low mumble of sound that almost seemed like a question.

A drifting Gestalt almost got squashed as Winona trampled on, frowning at its smoggy appearance as it darted away, but she made herself focus back around to what was more important.

"That sound like a good plan to ya? Wake Abigail up when we get back to camp?"

It's only been a day, the ghostly sister may not even be ready yet, but her words seemed to be causing a reaction and Wendy made a noise, an almost cough, and nodded her head against the back of Winona's neck, clinging to her as she tried to steady her walk into something a bit faster.

It shouldn't be much longer now, and the bothersome things should bug off the instant they got on the boat. The water seemed to drive them off, salty and rough, and those wooden planks Winona had worked hard on did a whole hell of a lot more than just float.

"Alright then, that's what we'll do. You keep awake then, you hear? Abigail is waiting for you."

Wendy murmured, quiet, an exhale, and Winona seriously wondered on if her words had made any sort of difference but the trailing stalkers seemed to be drawing back the ever so slightest bit, slowing behind her power walking, and, with a shift of Wendys weight, making sure she was safe, Winona bent herself and started the run back.

Risking it was not what she did, not at all, and excuse her language but fuck those nasty little buggers.

They may have answers, she can hear them, almost, almost so clearly at times, especially at night as the light of the moon seemed to get stronger and stronger, and her memories of being younger, of her sister and the times of then, even if it all that seemed to be getting more and more common, more prevalent, as if the answer was on the tip of her tongue, on the cusp of it all now-

They had went after Wendy, of all people. A little girl waiting sorrowfully, dutifully for her dear sister to come back once more. 

To hell with answers, especially right now. Winona had no objections on which she'd rather choose when the kids life was on the line.

There would always be another time, another place; right now, Wendy needed her.

Winona shifted her weight, eyes narrowing as she focused her breathing, sprinting back to the safety of the others, knowing they'd leave this place and its answers in the morning.

She made sure Wendy stayed safely upon her back as she ran on.


End file.
